Not Strong Enough
by Sevolye
Summary: And it's killing me when you're away. I wanna leave and I wanna stay. I'm so confused, so hard to choose between the pleasure and the pain. And I know it's wrong, and I know it's right. Even if I try to win the fight my heart would overrule my mind. And I'm not strong enough to stay away. Cole/Isabel, shortly post canon ending of Forever - SPOILERS ALERT.


**A/N:** Hello there, lovely community! *lifts nose to sniff air* Oh how long it's been since I've poked my head in here – actually, on this account I never have, but I've been around for quite a while total.

Moving on from rambling, this story is set close to the canon ending of Forever, after Isabel announced she was going to move to California – I haven't read Forever in half a year or so, so I don't remember the exact dialogue, but let's pretend I was professional and it was all on purpose... . *clears throat*

Sooooo, have a Cole/Isabel OneShot. Or possibly a TwoShot, depending on how long this ends up getting LMFAO And knowing my personal style and the way I dive into the characters it may actually get quite... long for a OneShot, ahem. Have fun, enjoy, feel free not to rate or review, although I love getting stuff what I love even more is no hypocrisy uvu So do what you feel like doing, not what you're told to c:

**Sev out.**

* * *

- **Cole** -

I sat beside the door, leaned against the bedroom wall, entirely busy and occupied longing.

There were many things I longed for, right this second, as my bare skin held close contact with the naturally unwelcoming coldness that engulfed me.

Of course I hadn't bothered turning on the heater – firstly, I didn't need any outer heat to compete with the flames within me, raging through my body and eating me up alive, worse than any of the fucked-up events of my past life had ever managed; and secondly, the cold wasn't unwelcome to me, for it whispered promises of forgetting and no longer regretting.

It spoke of another life, far more worthy of being called such than this torture was.

Just one week ago I would have refused that opportunity, would have held on to my newfound anchor that made me want to say something pathetic like _»All the pain is worth it«_.

In fact, that had been before the pain had actually come, back when my anchor had still been chained to me to keep me – a tiny broken boat, although of course considerably charming - over the surface in this wild ocean that was my life. Back when my drug had still been in reach, before this magnificence that made me feel ialive/i, an effect that no pill had ever had on me in years, had been torn from my grip, not giving me a chance to fasten my fingers. Maybe it was good that I hadn't. Gone now, taken away for eternity, ripping me off my opportunity to use it – her – up completely and drag her into these deadly waves with me.

Now though I can say from personal experience: No loss other than The One is ever worth this agony. I had been in pain so many times throughout my time on this planet, had died before several times and nothing, _nothing_ stood up to this hypnotizing hurt that came with the loss and brought with it the longing that I was dedicating this night to. The blackest night I had ever seen.

My life hadn't exactly been worth much, if anything. If lives were subjects to trade, I probably wouldn't have gotten so much as a few cents for mine. Strange enough that the sudden and considerably unexpected appearance of Isabel Culpeper – a hot, broken girl, alone, on the edge, so terrified of and yet so desperately wishing for love – had changed so much. Or had it? Had I had the strength I would have rested my face in my palms and run my nails across my eyes hoping to destroy the images that ran past my shut lids. In all honesty I had lost track of which one of me was Cole , which one was NARKOTIKA, which one was... me. Cole. Right this second I really would've liked to meet him face to face and kick his balls for bringing this torture over my entire being.

I had known all along that I had been looking for something, and I had also known that I would die not finding it, not even knowing what it was. How utterly wrong I had been. What truly murdered me slowly was the fact that I had been shown what it was that I desired and then watch it crumble before my very eyes, inches out of my reach and yet gone.

How ironic that I hadn't found my personal needle in the hay before it had drawn blood.

And now here I was, endlessly bleeding out from that wound she'd left behind and sucking in the cold with every breath, wrenched by a mixture of hope, terror and flames.

For doing this to me, for making me do this to myself, I hated her.

* * *

- **Isabel** -

I hated him.

Right there and then, as I stood in the icy chill of the night, my breath billowing from my lips as tiny clouds only to merge to one large cloud four inches ahead, I hated Cole St. Clair with every fiber of my being.

_»I'm not dead.«_

Oh sweet relief, how fast it had faded only to quickly be replaced with bitter hatred, an inexpicable and unbearable agony that ate its way through my insides like one of those creepy worms I had read about that grow up to twenty feet long and wind their way through your intestines, devouring you inside out.

My mind was going at an exceptional pace, effortlessly galloping past the minutes that passed without a movement of mine as everything looped over and over and over up there. Images, sharp as knives, that tore through the already scarred surface of my heart – the walls I had originally build to keep the pain out now shut it in as it clawed at me.

Images of his death, all so present, all so persistent, and the faint echo of his voice, broken by the phone line, unreal, un-Cole.

_»I'm not dead.«_

My fists clenched involuntarily and I quickly forced them to open. How pathetic to suppress emotions as faint as this, how ridiculous. Like a dumb joke that was told with an awkward sincerity, as if the speaker honestly believed in their own words.

_Pathetic. Ridiculous. Awkwardly sincere._

Suddenly these words seemed to mean so much more and reveal so much more about what I felt, who I _was_ right there and then, that it would have shocked me had I not been so occupied hating him.

Why the hell am I even here.

Sigh.

Why the hell would I even still care.

Matter of fact was, the only thing that made me come alive and that made my heart beat underneath its scars, that made me feel real among the walls of my own crumbling sanity these days was Cole St. Clair's presence. Sure, I enjoyed Grace's and Sam's company. I could exist without Cole. But I couldn't live without him. Up until this point the knowledge that there was a difference between the two had simply been in the back of my mind – and now, it was clarity, proven through experience. And so here I stood in front of the door at 1:13 AM, with all of my hatred for what he'd done to me and fire running through my entire body with every beat my weak heart gave, and I still wasn't strong enough to stay away from him. How awkwardly sincere.

I knocked on the door. Something told me that he was awake, something told me he hadn't found the strength to close his eyes tonight any more than I had. And this exact Something, this beautiful, tainted bond we shared, this one string that had turned to a chain the moment I'd carelessly allowed it through to my heart, this poison that made the aforementioned beat with an unknown blaze in his presence, ate its way right through my hatred the second the door swung open.

Cole's emerald gaze met mine.


End file.
